


burn a hole straight through it

by puckity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Episode: s11e20 Don't Call Me Shurley, M/M, Samulet Fix-It, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: Once it was all over, Dean let his necklace slip back into Sam’s hand.





	burn a hole straight through it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winchesterchola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesterchola/gifts).



> Written for my dearest [**Pan**](http://winchesterchola.tumblr.com), who humbly requested _"a samulet fix-it fic set right after S11E20"_ for my long-overdue [birthday prompts](https://puckity.tumblr.com/post/176314371144/happy-birthday-to-me-and-also-you)—this may not be a full fix, but it’s at least a band-aid! ❤❤❤❤❤
> 
> You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/), if you'd like!

Once the Darkness had dissipated, once the dead had risen and Chuck—God; Sam supposed he oughta call him by his real name now—appeared to ask for a sit-down with them, once it was all over Dean let his necklace slip back into Sam’s hand. Didn’t even try to take it back, didn’t even ask Sam if he could have it again. He just let it go while Sam held on, same as the last time.

“I don’t know if the return policy’s still good after all these years,” was all Sam said—muttered really, quiet and just a little bitter.

Dean stopped at that: stopped gulping down his second beer of the night, stopped picking at the skin around his nails, stopped pretending like there wasn’t something between them that needed talking about.

He tilted his head, same as he always did when he was trying to read Sam’s tells. “It’s not a return.”

“Right.” Sam pressed his lips thin, let the bitterness soak in. “It’s—what? Recycling? Since, I mean, you threw it away before.”

“It belongs to you.” Dean put his bottle down on the ring-stained counter. “It’s always belonged to you.”

“It was a gift.” Sam grit out, furious like he hadn’t been since Lucifer last licked at his insides.

“No, it was another one of Dad’s relics that we— _you_ —got saddled with when he was supposed to show but didn’t. A placeholder for me to keep when you left to live your own life, like I knew you would.” Dean folded his arms across his chest—it seemed so much smaller than Sam’d once thought it was—and shrugged. “I always knew you’d do that, eventually. Or…wished you would, whatever. Figured I’d need something to remember you by, you know?”

No, Sam didn’t know. How could he have known that Dean’d planned on him walking out, when he hadn’t even known he was gonna do it himself until the safe house screen door was being slammed shut behind him? When he left Dean standing there on that rotting-out front porch looking like one of their hunts had gone south and some fang had gutted him for the trouble—how could Sam’ve known that he’d traded a gift shop necklace for a spot spent living and dying next to his big brother all those years ago?

“Yeah, well.” Sam closed a tight fist around the amulet; the horns dug into the center of his palm. “Guess it didn’t really work for you, huh?”

“Guess not.” Dean pushed in—through that buffer they kept between them for as long as they could stand it, as long as the shoulder claps and elbow jabs and thready, lonesome nights teetered on just this side of bearable. “Never needed a necklace to tell me how I feel about you.”

There it was then: what Sam’d needed these past six years, soft and tacky around the edges like Dean was trying not to clear his throat around it. Somewhere between those words and Dean’s arms—strong like salvation—wrapping him up, Sam finally let go.

The necklace dropped, clattered along the chipped tile floor.

Dean brushed his lips, warm and dry, against the cords of Sam’s neck. “It’s yours, Sammy—always been yours.”

And Sam didn’t know, and Dean didn’t say.

And it didn’t matter—not anymore, anyway.


End file.
